Mysteries revealed

Before I launch into this rather delayed update to old Orange, let me add the first of a few pictures I intend to share with you over the months and years we shall bask in each other's glories. This is a link to earlier postings about the beginning of all things Orange, that heady year 90-91 when we were teens and our little lives were the most important thing there was. Regrettably sliced by the scanner, as much as could be saved has been (Next update we'll see 91-92, Legend 2, the return of Booze)

Of course, when a group of young ne'er do wells, layabouts and scoundrels gather in a non-prison, gaolesque accomadation block, all sorts of mysteries grow up and legends are born. Orange is an honest colour, and given that between the authors there are four years of Stoneham knowledge, we would like to do what we can to answer those mysteries. Or, at least, tap into the extensive resources at our disposal (these being cassette tape, photographic and direct access to both perpertrators and victims) and research an answer. So, before I entice with a few taglines of mysteries to which I both know, and would like to know, the answer, an open invitation to you all. Were you there, feel free to post here, or in the facebook link, any mysteries you would like solved, or investigated and whether you would like a public outing or a private response (I consider the statue of limitations to apply to all actions undertaken at the time). For non-Stonehamites from Uni or indeed from the new world discovered outside, any questions at all about life within the legend are perfectly acceptable.

That being said, here follows a taster of the pool of filth, a snifter of the evils, the glories and the disgrace that was South Stoneham House 1990-1993.

Who invented cartoning, what was within a standard one jump carton, and how successful was it as a weapon of floor war? Who did Dita the cleaner find asleep on the first floor outside his door with his coat on having failed to make it the last 3 yards to bed? What goes in a fourth floor fridge? Just what did first year reps censor from the Stoneham bulletin? Which caning team members were at the Rugby Team Ball and what did they do on the way home? Why is Mudos afraid of 'the tape' and will it ever resurface? How do you make my co-author throw up, and why am I giggling thinking about it right now? Which band did the Social Secretary plan to book then ditch without telling anyone because they just aren't cool and never were? What happened to the caning team and will the secrets of their Christmas dinners ever be told? Who got scammed at blackjack and still doesn't know it? And that's the dull stuff ;)

I've got the keys to the door, never been 21 before *hic*

Thought I might add a little update to old Orange and talk about a specific date that lives in infamy in my memory. Or rather that is to say, parts of it do, those parts I can remember. The date in question is Wednesday November 25 1992. Or, as the legends now recall it, Mudos' 21st birthday.

Your 21st is a big event, and it irks me somewhat that I have little memory of much of that day. To be honest, I am hoping that the telling of my jigsaw recollections might jog some memories and I'd welcome any additional information any Orange Orderists (thats you) might be able to add to the pot.

As I said, the 21st birthday is a major moment in the University life of a young hound such as me, and to have that birthday in term time, ensconced in the hallowed surroundings of South Stoneham House, and on a Wednesday (clearly a fine drinking day) was fortuitous in the extreme. Fortuitous in Extremis, as hackneyed Latin types would have it.

The facts, as I recall them then, are as follows. I know that my friend Suzanne came down for the night, and for that very thing, amongst many others, she royally rocks. I have a sneaking suspicion I might have not gone to the station to pick her up because I have a vague recollection of having started drinking in the JCR (Junior Common Room to thee and me, Bar to everyone else) whilst we played a number of games of pool and Sue turning up through the door.

Now, by the time we had hit my 21st, Stoneham Bar had gone the way of the Dodo - brutally murdered by a combination of incompetence, incontinence and being run by drunk students. Death by PissAdventure, as the coroner's report read. Therefore the main thrust of the evening was over in Monte Bar (The 2 Guys, Simon and Colm running it, iirc?? Guy B - you'll remember)

Much as I hate to admit it, Monte bar was a pretty funky little hole in this guise - just the right level of ricketiness to be probably unsafe in a modern context, with a fine view out the window of what tail might be coming - or, for those of us who had left their sick bed with flu to have a sneaky drink or 5, to see when trouble in the shape of girlfriends or friends of girlfriends and such like were on the warpath (different story, sorry I digress). Much funkier it was then the behemoth it became in the next academic year when, in gratitude for some bailing out of Stoneham, Monte got a swanky new bar with a built-in DJ booth and a pair of boots 5 sizes too big for every resident.

So, there we were, en masse, celebrating. Of the actual events in Monte bar that night, I have firm recollection of only two - I know there was a yard of grendel but alas, I have no idea how many of the target 42 units for the night were in it, or ended up in me. There was also a pinball table behind the seats we sat in which was piled high with glasses (obviously we weren't sipping tea from china cups). I made a speech. That is to say, I tried to make a speech. When I say 'try', I mean stood on a stool, mumbled something and I remember fosberry flopping onto the pinball table. That, however, is the extent of my memories of the night in Monte. Any further snippets would be welcomed. And, 18 years on, not as embarassing as, say, 17 years ago.

After Monte, we returned to Stoneham. I'll be honest, I have only snippets of memory from this point. There was definitely champagne and several people in my cramped cell, sorry, room. I only know Doug set the fire alarm off because he was clearly a toast making dingus and I have been told many times since that Doug set the fire alarm off by making toast. We got shouted at by someone - could have been a fireman, could have been Gerry the sub-warden, hell it could have been Penry, the mild-mannered janitor.

Next thing I know, I am cold and we are outside. I'd like to think I got us out of Hyde-Prices bad books by my silver tongue. I have an awful feeling though that I just hugged him and mumbled it was my birthday and he wasn't allowed to be angry with me. Oh the lofty skills of the bard.

The next day, I was shamefully hungover. Not just hungover but utterly incapable of activity. Not only had I failed to collect Sue from the station, my attempt to walk her back got as far as Connaught corner of Wessex Lane, at which point I told her I had no choice but to go back to bed and gave fairly useless directions to the airport train station. Not hating me forver for being a useless twonk is another reason Suzanne has always, and still does, rock. It is entirely possible I went drinking again that night.

That's it. That is all I remember of my 21st birthday. Anyone who remembers any further tidbits will be rewarded with a hearty handshake and thanks. Let's be honest here though, we had a good craic at Uni ;)

It's all about the red letter days

One of the key features of the three years I spent at Southampton University was that it is a self-contained period of haze in the memory banks, whereby even the rememberance of it is enough to slur the words and start the giggle loop running. However, even in the rarified atmosphere of a 24/7 rizz-razz-rise circuit, there was room for red letter days. Times and events that stand out from the rest, things at the time to be looked forward to with eagerness and remembered now with winsome fondness.

Stoneham would put on an annual fireworks extravaganza, with an expensive and memorable display and band/disco/booze entertainment. Being elevated to the peerage in my first term (actually being elected Social Secretary which I held on to for the following year), I had the honour of being responsible for this event. I say responsible, that is the technical term for it, although I took it as a supervisory-in-absence role. Having said that, I am not prepared to confirm or deny whether I skived off the manual grunt work of setting up the stage and such like and got bombed off my rocker at the Dorchester all afternoon. No, the manual work was very much for willing volunteers and the rest of the JCR committee, it was my unfortunate fate to take the plaudits when it all went swimmingly.

Before you judge me too harshly though, let me just say this, there are not many heros like me in the world who at a later Stoneham event not only stayed sober till midnight (mainly due to the equivalent of a court martial from the ratbags on the JCR), but rescued hundreds of delightful wenches who could not pee due to the blocking of all the ladies toilets. Oh the joy of unblocking three loos worth of used tampons, bog roll and errata. Thanks girls, seriously, a real highlight for me that was. Particular thanks as well to Dave the bouncer who sought me out to deal with it.

Of course, notwithstanding the various events at ours and the other halls, there were the Balls. There's an art to going to a ball, with the bars open until 5am, you're always going to struggle to make it to dawn if you go at it hell for leather from 9pm. Having said that, we did alright! Oh for the days when we were young and lithe enough to slip into a Tux and not have to worry about having put a few pounds on since it was last worn, and the days when every girl looked a million dollars in their ball gowns.
It was live soft porn from start to finish. Fry up in full regalia at Big Georges to round things off and a stroll in the gathering light back home, what could be finer?

It would take far too much time to talk about everything that happened at the balls, and perhaps some selected highlights might yet form part of the Orange Blog's trip down memory lane, but potted memories include forsaking Big Georges for a slab of stilton bought from the garage and crackers at the girlfriends, chasing tail in every bar and dancefloor area of one ball, out of ordergate, tit in a white tux falling in mud before even getting in the ball and swearing loudly at Lohan for organising a truly awful graduation ball (Danii Mingoue still owes me more than the 2 songs she performed and I'll have my pay one day). Special mention here for the 95 grad ball at Reading uni and the wibbly wobbly lurch for the last coach home from a damp and cold field in the middle of nowhere.

Such a an amusing batch of memories, but to be fair, to stand out from the crowd in those particular three years, it had to be pretty damn special. With most of my friends now married and their happy days bagged and packed, there are few occasions to match the Uni red letter days. I miss them, and I miss fitting into a Tux by default rather than hard work!

P.S. The Dorchester did fantastic ham, egg and chips.

Home Sweet Stoneham Bar

So, anyone who was not part of the legend that was Stoneham 90-93 but who has read the first entries in this blog knows all about the who, but what about the where? Thus, for anyone who never experienced it, and for all of us that speak of it in hushed tones as a dearly departed, but unruly, love, I wanted to talk about the epicness that was Stoneham Bar (la la la).

South Stoneham House is a 16 story tower block, conceived in the twisted minds of 50s and 60s architects as ideal digs for Studentry. Through the front doors (someone should replace that smashed panel of safety glass in the left hand door, no idea who could have broken it), a right turn past the gents and hang a left towards the payphones. Round the corner where the ladies had a shorter trek for tinkling and avoiding the descent to your right into the hell wherein grey cheese was found inside burgers, one faced the doors to paradise.

A mere doorpush and there it was, in all it's glory; the Junior Common Room, graced at the far end by silver shutters masking glory - Stoneham Bar. At precisely 8pm the shutters would be up and the serious business of being a student would begin. Oh the nights we had in that bar! I am sure, as the orange blog expands, some of them may be told in full, but each one had its own charms. A typical night might involve an hour and a half of beer abuse, followed by the horrific realisation that I was not nearly pissed enough. Therefore, on a personal note, I would like at this stage to give a little heads up to the drink I invented to solve this problem. Liking the unique combination of Southern Comfort and Archers, 4 shots of each in a pint glass topped off by lemonade was the tipple of choice. This pleasant concoction was known as Dave's F*cker. The DF was only really suitable for those times reality needed obliterating, mostly a smaller quantity of the constituent ingredients would suffice. I am also pleased to report that I drink neither of these spirits any more and certainly not in the same glass!

That being said, back to paradise. From the bottle of Galliano that never got drunk to the disease riddled glass cleaner which succeeded in adding bacteria to used glasses, everything about the place screamed quality. For comfort, yellow plastic/mock leather covered corner group and wall sofas with the stuffing coming out of most of them and 20 years of dirty rat studentry embossed on the surface and the patches that littered the surface - magic darts! Your older self never got mandrillised like Stoneham got you mandrillised (for those that were not there, think squiffy, drunk, incapable, etc)

As with all good things though, we took her existence for granted. And so it was, 2 days into summer term in 1992, the axeman cometh (or rather the taxman) and insolvency laid our beauty low. It was good whilst it lasted though. Actually, it was great while it lasted. And now, with the tower block crumbling and (I understand) soon to come down and the memories slipping further back into the recesses of the mind, the last Bar Manager of (the original and best) Stoneham Bar bids the beloved old girl a final farewell and offers her hearty thanks for the ridiculous and glorious fun she gave.

How it all began (just the facts ma'am, just the facts)

Of course, I should tell you all about that first day, so you get both sides of the story. Not that I am besmirching the word of Leonard Caine you understand, I'd never do something so callous. This was back in the days when students had honour and integrity and didn't try to brain a Rozzer with a fire extinguisher.

The building in which I found myself was a classic of early 60s functional design - a 16 story monstrosity close to the flight path into Southampton International airport. To say it was nearing the end of it's useful life would be an understatement, the mould growing under the window in my first floor room indicated this would not be a place I would hanker for from a comfort perspective, but to be fair I missed it like crazy when I was away. Bob Marley once penned a moving Reggae classic about the first floor rooms - No plumbing, No cry... and, as it turned out, no discount on the rent for the below par accomodation.

Not being in possession of a new fangled Compact Disc player and with my parents having left me to my student life, I cranked up the record player and slipped on something from my limited but eclectic collection - possibly the Pogues, although it could easily have been Queen or Elton John such was the Liquorice Allsorts I used to (and still do) listen to.
A cup of coffee later and I decided that sitting around on my own was not the best use of the day, so I set off from room 1G in search of my floor mates.

I didn't have far to search, for next door I could hear the sounds of music. So it was that the first person I stumbled upon in my student life was the inestimably comfortable Jonny Medcalf - sat in his armchair listening to The Jam. We chatted for a bit after the introductions whereupon we were invaded by a host (far from heavenly it was as well) - the remaining first floorers, already gathered and touring round to collect up the rest of us. A swathe of faces and introductions which at the time was a blur and now is just a happening in the memory I cannot play a clear image of.

Of course, by the end of the night I knew all of them for we spent the rest of the day as a collective slowly accustoming ourselves to each others mannerisms and patterns of speech. It quickly became obvious (due to the haze hanging over us) that this was a smoking floor, which came as a relief to me, being a pack and a half a day chuffer then (but no longer). Ten first floor ratbags, whom Len has already introduced in his inimitable style. But it was not just the ten of us, Rolf Benham-Parker and Ivan also were there - to this day I have no earthly clue why two twelfth floor guys spent that first day with us, but there you have it, there was Rolf and Ivan, the very first of many paradoxes in the Stoneham Years.

What more to say today? Not much, that is how it began on the first day, and that evening we went to the bar. Three years later I sobered up again, but being of strong constitution I can recall some, or perhaps all, of the haze in between and the tales therein that lead a young Len and Dave to the horrors of the Orange Book can now be told. Friends come and friends go and time marches on apace, but there will never be another Caning team nor a three years like that. Even the shit was worth the candle.

Len's first piece - One Orange Book To Rule Them All

Len has penned this introduction, and will shortly be installed with full authorly powers.

One Orange Book to rule them all, one Orange Book to find them,
One Orange Book to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.

I was recently ensconced in my favourite armchair, surveying my colonial farmlet and slaking my thirst with eight litres of lager (as is my wont after a hard day of furze cutting and gathering firewood), when I felt a great disturbance in the force. It was as if millions of voices had cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I feared something terrible had happened.


Trepidatiously, I carried my remaining 18 cans of lager over to the computer desk, logged on and commenced my investigation. Within moments, my suspicions were confirmed, a cursory perusal of my usual haunts having identified the cause. The Orange Book had been found and reopened by Mudpuddlin Man Dave (an alias adopted approximately 18 years ago, for obvious security reasons pertaining to the contents of the aforementioned tome). My heart stopped, my throat tightened as my brain struggled to come to terms with the implications of this development, and as I drained another can (whilst simultaneously opening the next with my other hand) a series of flashbacks erupted within my mind causing me to slowly fall into unconsciousness, to be transported back to where it all began, so many years ago………


The building itself could be called, at best, utilitarian and the floor to which I was directed was (as we were later to discover) even more austere than the other fourteen, with no running water in the rooms and ablution facilities shared by The Ten. The Ten had arrived, each bearing the uniform of his chosen tribe; Ned the Indie Boy in his long sleeve “Carter” tee shirt; Flea the Casual in his perfectly ironed jeans and golden earrings; Frank Satanus the Goth in his over sized black baggy jumper; Johnny Foods the contemplative academic and gifted actor in his Morrissey cardigan with oversized buttons; Shadrack the excitable engineer, chain smoking Silk Cuts; Leviticus the bawdy sportsman and medic; Dirty Sanchez, a Liverpudlian scallywag and former military man; and Scunner Curwen, a box of dog shit.


Amongst The Ten was one who did not readily fit, having apparently taken on both the appearance and persona of a gardening programme presenter – marble wash jeans, unbranded white trainers and a semi-casual shirt buttoned all the way were in contrast to his confident voice and good humoured disposition. This was my first meeting with Dave.


Several of The Ten would ultimately falter, fail to rise to the challenge and be replaced by altogether more robust (and in this story, critical) individuals such as Doc Rudenski and The Troll. Secondary characters such as Pregnant Welsh Mong, The Drummer, and The Mandrill would also have a part to play. More of that later.


Time pressures prevent me from elaborating further at this stage but, suffice to say, if the Tale of the Orange Book is to be told proper, further episodes will be required to give the necessary background. Nonetheless, this is where it all began, with The Ten. At this early stage, my adolescent pitch was somewhere between indie and academic; a floppy centre parting trading off against the biker jacket, with a healthy dose of pseudo working class anti-snobbery thrown in for good measure.


This, however, would all change rapidly within a matter of weeks as I was drawn inevitably into a downward spiral of depravity, accompanied by Dave; a maelstrom that would, and could, only end in one place…The Orange Book.


I hope that Dave and I can finally gain some sense of closure through the telling of this story, for there is plenty to come. For now, I sign off. For those of you who don’t know me….


My name is Leonard Caine.

The intro - back in the dim mists of time

Once upon a time, in a land far, far from here (actually Southampton so not THAT far) I was a wee strip of a lad embarking upon a great missive of learning. I was a student of philosophy, studying for my B.A. I say studying, I mean drinking, playing pool and sharking - the triumvirate of joy that kept me going for three years.

There are many fine tales that I could tell you of those times. I could reveal the secret behind cartoning, the blight of many a Stonehamite, I could get into a deep discussion about the health benefits of a diet of kit kats and ready salted crisps. I might even, with a somewhat winsome grin, talk about my behaviour, or lack of it, towards the fairer sex on occasion.

However, today is not the time for such tales, as appealing as the telling might be. Perhaps future blog spots might offer an opportunity to give you some insight into the specifics, but in general think about me, with hair and 2 stone lighter, permanently drunk and getting away with moider and you're getting warmer.

No, it is a particular memory that has stirred me to post today, and indeed to plan an expansion of Mudpuddlin to another outlet. For you see, back in those days, Student Dave had a friend, Student Len. Dave and Len were more foresighted than anyone at the time knew, and committed to the ages their thoughts and general flimflam to a book, an orange book. The Orange Book is, contrary to the legends, extant, and provides a fascinating and terrifying testimony to the raw power of alcohol. Portions of the original Orange Book may indeed find their way into open web publication, but in the meantime be aware that the Orange Book will return! Following extensive negotiations, and an attractive offer of co-authorship (that I am sure alcohol had nothing to do with), look out very soon for the Orange Blog, and be swept away by it's majesty.

It is, as they say, on, and quite seriously out of order.